The stangury! The worst pain that a man can suffer, he’d once heard, when urine must be voided drop by drop—this was the same, except it was his seed.
And it kept on.
His wavering mind confused it with the plashes of the water-clock. But Threesie had suffered only eight or nine stripes at most. How many drops would it take to discharge his heavy load? And render his member flaccid? Two score hundred?
The violet-hung boudoir and Hisvet and her crew were gone. All that remained for vision was the vermilion volume lit by pain’s hot ember eyes and his phosphorescent mask, hell in a very small place.
In a voice that was rough, rasping, infinitely dry, sardonic-tender, Death’s sister whispered throatily, “My very own dear love. My dearest one.”
As his torment continued, his wavering consciousness and gasping and trembling general weakness warned him the end was near. Despite the continuing jolts of agony, he concentrated on regulating his breathing, making it shallow, pushing back with his tongue the grains his gasps had drawn. With the roaring in his ears, it became a surf of boulders he had to keep at bay.
.20.
Cif was cheered to find things orderly busy at the diggings, the dogcart unloading, some men wolfing midday bread and soup by the fire, while at the shaft head the stubby wide cone of dug dirt had grown visibly higher and the bright growl of a saw spoke of shorings and roofing for the tunnel being readied. Fafhrd’s man Fren, on duty at the windlass, told her that Skor, the girl Klute, and Mikkidu were down, the first two working at the face, that last walking dirt between there and the shaft. She commented on a faint stench, coming irregularly.
“I whiffed something myself once or twice already,” Fren agreed, making a face. “Like rotten eggs?”
At his offer, she rode the empty bucket down, standing, her small-booted feet fitting with room to spare.
At the shaft the foul odor became stronger. Looking up at Rill and Skullick, she held her nose. They copied her gesture, nodding. As she neared the bottom, Mikkidu came backing out of the tunnel’s low entry lugging a full bucket and she stepped out away from him, preparatory to helping switch the hook from the empty bucket to the full one.
But as he swung it around, he pitched over it into her arms. Digging in her heels, she managed to prop the Mouser’s small lieutenant, snarling at him, “What’s the matter with you, Mik? Are you drunk?”
When he answered her groggily, “No, Lady,” his eyes weaving, she pushed him against the wall, leaving him to recover his wits and balance, and hurried into the tunnel.
Here the stink was intense and she held her breath. A few fast scurrying steps brought her to the end, where the light of a leviathan-oil lamp burning blue and dim showed her Skor on his knees slumped forward against the rough face he’d been scraping, his shoulders slack, while beside him Klute lay prone on the rock floor, evidently having passed out as she’d tried to crawl away.
Cif took her under the armpits and half dragged, half carried her out of the tunnel. Mikkidu was rubbing his forehead. She called, “Skullick!” but he was already climbing down by the pegs. Klute was writhing a little and mewling faintly with her eyes closed. Cif slung her over an arm, stepped into the empty bucket, and signaled Fren to hoist. The pulleys creaked. In passing she told Skullick, “Skor’s collapsed at the face. Fumes and foul air, get him out fast.”
At the top she passed Klute to Rill and Fren and then stepped out herself. The girl was muttering, “Can’t find my scoop.” Rill told her, “Wake up, Klute. Try to breathe deeply,” and remarked to Cif, “There was such a stench in the cave toward Darkfire.”
Cif nodded and turned back to watch Skullick drag Skor out of the tunnel. He called, “He’ll come out of it, Lady. His pulse is still there.” Mikkidu seemed recovered, for he helped Skullick get a rope around the unconscious man’s chest so he could be hoisted up the shaft, and then climbed the pegs alongside to steady the dead-weight burden on its way.
When Fafhrd’s lieutenant was stretched out next to the shaft head, Cif took his pulse under the jaw, didn’t like its reedy feel, and directed Mikkidu to lift his shoulders and head (by its scanty red hair) while she straddled his lap, clasped him around with both arms, and fed him air from her own lips, alternating with brief tightenings of her hug.
When Skor’s pulse seemed stronger, she directed he be carried to the shelter tent and delegated Rill to keep close watch and continue her nursing as needed. Then she quizzed Mikkidu sharply.
“You were going into and out of the tunnel, you must have noticed the fumes.”
“I did, Lady,” he replied, “and warned Skor. But he made light of them, being so concentrated on speeding the digging.”
“Well, he was right about that, though imprudent,” she said with weight. “The digging must continue at the face if we’re to have a chance of saving the Captain. Fresh air must be conveyed there in good supply. And speedily.”
“Aye, Lady,” Mikkidu agreed dubiously, “but how?”
“I have had opportunity to think that matter through,” she told him. “Mik, last autumn you were with the captains on their great snow-serpent hunt in the Death Lands that lie midway betwixt the volcanoes Darkfire and Hellglow?”
“Who of us wasn’t, Lady?” that one replied. “Aye, and busy for a fussy fortnight afterward flaying and curing the uncut hides.”
“As I recall,” she went on, “there were some forty perfect hides got in all.”
“Two score and seven to be precise, Lady. All laid up at the barracks with camphor and cloves against the next trading voyage by one of the captains. They’d bring a fortune in Lankhmar.”
“As I too thought.” She nodded. “The dogcart is still here. I’ve a mind to send you back in it to fetch out those same hides. All of them.”
He stared at her puzzledly.
“Are you aware,” she asked him, “that each of those hides constitutes a wrist-wide, sound leather tube nine or ten cubits long? Three or four yards?”
“Yes, Lady,” he began, his brow still clouded, “but—”
“Come on, I’ll go with you,” she said with a merry grin, standing up from where they’d been sitting beside the fire. “For you’ll need someone to attend to the hides while you’re busy seeing to the unshipping of the great bellows at the smith-forge preparatory to its conveyance here.”
“Lady,” Mikkidu said, his face lightening up, “I do believe I get a glimmering of your intention.”
“And so do I!” was voiced admiringly by Skullick, who’d been listening in.
“Good!” Cif told the latter. “Then you can take charge here whilst I’m away.”
And she dragged Fafhrd’s ring off her thumb and gave it to Skullick.
.21.
Pshawri broke a pane of ice to free the waters of Last Spring for easy imbibing.
When he had lapped his fill he backed away, dancing his thanks in a solemn little jig such as no one had ever seen him foot. He was a secretive young man.
He ended his jig with a slow rotation widdershins, scanning his still, chill, hazy-white surroundings from right to left. Darkfire’s smoke plume was a smudge in the northern milk-sky. His gaze lingered studiously on the southwest and south, as though he expected pursuers there, and from the height to which he roved it, either flying ones or else very big and tall indeed.
He was at the boundary between the Moor and barren Lava Lands, though a dusting of snow hid the blackness of the latter, blurring the distinction.
He undid one button of his pouch hanging against his belly in front and carefully wormed out the bottle Afreyt had given him, mindful of the pouch’s precious contents, and drank off half the remnant of fortified sweet wine, toasting the smoke plume. Then he bore the bottle back to the spring, submerged it until it was almost full, recorked it and returned it to his pouch. After rebuttoning the latter, he felt it over with a gesture curiously reminiscent of a pregnant woman feeling for movement.
He sketched a second jig that included a stamping defiance toward the south-southwest, then turned and loped away north.
.22.
Toward evening the girl Fingers woke refreshed in the bed at Cif’s house she’d occupied night before last. She slid herself from under the blanket without waking Gale, slipped into one of the two robes of toweling lying across the foot, belted it, and wandered down to the large kitchen, where Afreyt, similarly clad, stood beside a narrow door of gray driftwood with a row of pegs and two small windows of horn in the wall alongside it. The pegs were empty save for two, whence hung a worn robe larger than her own and an iron-studded belt bearing sheathed dirk and small-ax, with boots set below.